


the writing on the wall

by camiii



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Klefan, M/M, stefan/klaus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:23:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camiii/pseuds/camiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for the tvd_hiatus prompt challenge on LJ. The prompt was: Klaus and Stefan drunk and alone in Stefan's apartment the night he showed Klaus the list of his kills. I've wanted to write this since 3x03</p>
            </blockquote>





	the writing on the wall

 

 

“I must say, Stefan. Your choice of residence has me questioning your taste.”

Klaus drawls out the words, stumbling slightly and leans back against the wall. The light in the dingy hallway is dim, the colors muted and a thin layer of grime and dust covers the threadbare carpet on the floor. He is basking in the afterglow of a pleasant evening, and is more than inebriated enough to allow himself a moment to simply watch Stefan as he moves. Head tilting to the side he observes the younger vampire insert the key into the lock with drunken precision.

Stefan just throws him a grin over his shoulder as the door swings open. “Come on in, I’ll get you a drink.”

Klaus doesn’t immediately follow, but instead rests comfortably against the door frame, faking ease with well-practiced moves. It is hunger in its messiest form; the intricate web of _want_ that crashes over him at times like this. When it’s just the two of them, no distractions; nothing but Stefan and his infectious grin and absolute faith in his hybrid friend. Now would be the time to find an excuse and leave. Take a step back from the edge he’s been dancing on for so long. It would be a long way to fall, and he’s not sure he’d ever hit the bottom. But it’s late, and he feels high on adrenaline and camaraderie, so he steps over the threshold.

The apartment is in a state; the bed unmade, old newspapers and used glasses littering the table and more dirty dishes in the sink. He watches Stefan shrug out of his tuxedo jacket, throwing the pricy garment haphazardly over the back of a kitchen chair.

“That will wrinkle, you know.” He points out as the waistcoat follows, even though he knows the argument is futile. Stefan is still moving restlessly through the room, ridding himself of yet another expensive layer of cloth. “You are a slob, mate.” He points out, and smirks at the chuckle he receives as an answer.

“The maid tasted better than she dusted.” Stripped down to his wife beater, Stefan turns to Klaus, stumbling slightly from the motion and laughing at his own lack of coordination. “I’m sure your delicate senses can endure. Scotch?”

“Don’t tell me you brought me all the way out here to show me the décor, because I won’t believe you.” Klaus says, pushing his own tuxedo jacket off his shoulders and hanging it neatly on the back of the second chair, bowtie carefully stuffed down one pocket. “And yes, I think a drink will be necessary.”

“You know what? I’m beginning to realize who’s to blame for Rebekah being so high maintenance.” Stefan laughs, opening up a hidden door to the pantry and revealing shelves of liquor.

“Take that back,” Klaus threats amicably, as he makes himself comfortable on the settee and rolls up his sleeves. He watches Stefan fill two tumblers with the amber liquid, accepting one of them. “To secrets,” he raises his glass in a toast, eyes never leaving his friend. The liquor burns its way pleasantly down his throat, and he can’t hold back a sound of approval.  

“To secrets,” Stefan agrees, settling down on the bed and leaning back on his elbow, tumbler in hand. He looks positively debauched splayed out on top of the rumpled sheets; there’s not an ounce of tension in the sculpted line of his shoulders or the tilt of his head. It sends a rush of heat through Klaus’ bloodstream, reminding him once again how bad an idea this is. Stefan looks much too comfortable, as if he’s forgotten why they are in this precarious situation. The _secret_.

“So what’s your plan? You’re not expecting me to beg, are you?” Klaus drawls, having another taste of whiskey and noticing how the younger vampire’s eyes follow his every move as he brings the glass to his lips. The alcohol slides down his throat like liquid heat and adds to the fire slowly growing heavy in the pit of his stomach. “You know I won’t.”

“One day your impatience will be your downfall, my friend,” Stefan laughs, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallows another mouthful of scotch.

“Some would say I have more troubling character traits than a lack of patience.”

“I could compose you a list, if you wish,” Stefan laughs, downing the last of his drink and getting to his feet in one surprisingly fluid motion. He walks slowly into the kitchen, but then stops to throw an expectant look over his shoulder, “You coming?”

Klaus watches him disappear inside the pantry, and he, too, finishes his drink before he gets to his feet. He is intrigued, there’s no denying it.  Not only by the secret his friend claimed he wanted to share earlier that evening, but by the way Stefan’s eyes are suddenly dark as they lock with his. It’s thrilling; the shadows constantly lurking underneath the boyish, easygoing surface.

The hidden space smells of bourbon and dust, but is surprisingly clean. The room is small and lit only by a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting an eerie glow on the grayish walls. Stefan is leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. The picture he creates demands attention; and that might be to blame for how long it takes Klaus to notice the wall furthest from the doorway. It’s covered in script, line upon line of Stefan’s handwriting.

Unable to tear his eyes from it, Klaus finds himself walking further into the room in slow, measured steps, feeling Stefan’s eyes follow him as he moves.

The name Salvatore is the first one that stands out, and he has an inkling as to what this is; this long list of names, male and female mixed together. His suspicions are confirmed as he finds the name Liam Grant scribbled on the wall, one buried amidst the many others.

“These are your kills,” he states, looking over to Stefan for confirmation. “How…delightful,” he continues, eyes flitting from name to name. “Why?”

“It helps keep the memories fresh,” Stefan explains distractedly, eyes roaming the list on the wall as a tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Tell me.” The need to know flares up like a fire doused with gasoline; white-hot and blinding.

The second the words tumble from his lips he looks over to Stefan, only to find him looking back; his gaze dark and undecipherable.

“Pick one.” Stefan nods towards the list. His arms are still crossed nonchalantly over his chest but he looks less at ease now, as if he has to force himself to remain leaning against the wall.

Encouraged, Klaus moves closer to the wall in front of him; eyes roaming over the numerous names listed. Itching to touch, he reaches out to let a finger trail down the wall.  “That one,” he says, the pad of his finger brushing over the rough concrete. “Tell me about Derek Page.”

Stefan nods, for a moment seemingly lost in thought before he stands up straight, fingers flexing at his sides. The smile playing on his lips grows darker, more menacing. The ripper is breaking through the surface like ripples on a lake and the look on his face is mesmerizing. Startlingly beautiful.

“I followed him for hours,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I kept out of sight, watched him grow more and more nervous. He could feel it, someone watching. He didn’t get a glimpse of me until he was walking home at night, and then he ran.” He trails off, for a moment lost in the memory. “His heart was racing like a rabbit’s, pumping more adrenaline into his bloodstream with every beat. So thick in the air I could practically taste it.”

Klaus listens intently, watching Stefan’s mouth as he tells the story. He can picture it perfectly in his head; the thrill of the chase, knows the dampness of back alleys and smell of fear permeating the air well. “What did he do?”

Stefan laughs, a low, predatory chuckle. “He tried to outrun me, stumbled through the streets like a madman calling out for help. I let him run until he reached his own building, and then I pinned him to the door, face first. By then he was babbling in fear. Ripped his jugular right open before he could get a look at me, as soon as he’d told me his name. The fool believed he was talking to a ghost.”

“Killed by a ghost?” Klaus grins, “How little they know.” He takes a step back, taking in the large number of names on the wall. There are so many stories to be told. All of them no doubt a testimony to the ripper’s wickedly creative methods. “I think I’m beginning to see the benefit of your little collection.”

The words sound bleak and unimpressed. Nothing compared to the storm intensifying inside his chest. There are four names, all written in the same thick ink; seemingly jotted down at the same time. “Slow day?” He drawls, smiling as Stefan’s quiet laughter eases some of the tension building in his own shoulders. “Now, who’s next?”

Klaus takes his time, deftly ignoring the warning bells ringing in his head. The situation is too risky - too close to something he barely allows himself to remember. There’s something about Stefan Salvatore that makes it difficult to remain indifferent and it’s gotten under his skin – leaves him feeling like it’s stretched too tight and ready to tear.

At last he finds a name that stands out; the handwriting shaky and barely legible. Anna Shaw. He takes a step back from the wall, pointing at the name. “That one. The darling Anna.”

Stefan frowns before pushing off the wall to have a closer look at the list before them. Klaus watches him move; following the intricate lines of the rose tattoo covering his friend’s shoulder with curious eyes. He wants to know the story behind that too; he wants to know it all, could spend decades listening to the pitch of Stefan’s voice as he tells his stories.

“She found me.”

Stefan’s voice brings him back to the present, and Klaus nearly startles. He’s too on edge, stripped down to the bones and raw in the muted light – inexplicably human.

“Some little rich girl gone wild, ended up at Gloria’s one night. Dolled up and half drunk before she even stumbled over to my table.” Stefan explains. “She wanted in my bed.” The grin is unexpected, a quick flash of teeth and blinding in its force; making Klaus’ fingers twitch at his sides. “And wasn’t shy to tell me so.”

Klaus forces a smile in return, ignoring the flare of something acrid in the pit of his stomach. “Do go on.”

“I played along, of course.” Stefan continues, eyes glittering with barely held-back amusement. “Listened to her whole life story; strict father, absentee mother. Little girl lost with dreams of becoming the next Louise Brooks. So I might have insinuated that I had connections, friends even, in Tinseltown. At the end of the night she was practically begging me to take her home.”

 “So I brought her here.” He shrugs, and the tone of his voice implies how she only really had herself to blame. He sounds almost bored, annoyed with the girl’s stupidity and childish dreams of Hollywood fame as he continues, “She came willingly, and let’s just say she could have easily made her way onto the big screen based on bedroom merit alone.”

Klaus laughs, but the sound that comes out is wrong, thrown off by the tightness of his throat.  Stefan looks at him curiously, but goes back to telling his story, more animated now. “Afterwards she went to fetch us some drinks.”

The comment catches Klaus’ full attention, and he shifts his weight, preparing for the undoubtedly gruesome end of Anna Shaw.

“She noticed the list, didn’t take her very long.” Stefan tells him, circling closer and for a moment Klaus feels more like the prey than the hunter he’s been for centuries. “She tried to run, of course, she kicked and screamed and cried for her father to come rescue her.” A hint of something bitter seeps into his voice at the mention of his victim’s father. Perhaps it’s the idea that her father would have tried to save her, if he’d had the chance, that’s causing offense, or the conviction that he wouldn’t. You never really stop caring about family, after all.

“She got to sign her own name. If her biggest dream was to become the next big movie star, it seemed only fitting that she’d write at least one autograph in her lifetime.”

The last words are spoken from behind him, and Klaus has to force himself not to turn around - pay no attention to their proximity. It’s ludicrous, this fixation he has with his ripper friend. Once again his eyes land on the name Salvatore at the top of the list. “It seems the long lost Anna Shaw wasn’t the only one having issues with her father.”

Perhaps it’s the last sliver of self-preservation that forces the words out before he can stop himself.  But as Stefan rears back, Klaus immediately misses the imaginary feel of body heat against his back.

“That was self-defense.” Stefan’s words are clipped, all humor gone from his voice; the tension palpable in the air that now feels polluted. Wrong. Klaus holds his breath, an eternity of _no one_ and _nothing_ and _alone_ stretching out before him until -

“Let’s not ruin our night with rehashed stories of disappointed fathers,” Stefan says, voice down to a throaty murmur and once more behind Klaus where he still stands in front of the wall. “Pick another one.”

“The Duncans.” Klaus chooses the first thing that stands out, finding the couples’ names in the middle of a row.

Stefan makes a contented noise from the back of his throat, leaning in a little closer still. “Billy and Jenna Duncan,” he reads over Klaus’ shoulder, and there’s another pause then, hesitant this time. “We met down at Boul Mich.”

“So it is true. ‘The ripper of Monterey’ is no stranger to Towertown.” Klaus struggles to keep all emotion out of his voice; but manages to find the words. He knows what kind of people frequents that particular part of town and its myriad of speakeasies and lavish nightclubs.

“Are you surprised? Our kind usually fits well in amongst the bohemians and self-elected outcasts.“

“No,” Klaus replies simply, and he would turn around and look Stefan in the eyes if he could move. If the conversation hadn’t rooted him to the spot. It feels like he’s replying to something else, a question more charged and much more important. “No, it doesn’t surprise me, nor does it offend me.”

It feels like a ‘yes’, of sorts, but there’s no immediate response. The room is completely silent, the sound of the street clearly audible to him. A couple walks by down on the street, their soft murmurings and steady heartbeats reverberating through the walls. When Stefan finally speaks it’s right against his ear; breath ghosting across his skin.

“It’s a child’s game, finding someone down there,” he begins, shoes scuffing against the cement floor as he steps closer still. “So many people wanting to talk to you, looking for company.”

“Who-“

“Let’s just say that Jenna Duncan was not unaware of her husband’s…predilection for younger men.” Stefan interrupts him, and Klaus can nearly _feel_ him smile against his neck.

“They invited me into their home, made a feeble attempt at getting me drunk. Probably so that I wouldn’t notice dear Mrs. Duncan was still in the room when Billy put his hand down my pants.”

The words hit him like a blow; head spinning Klaus doesn’t speak a word, afraid the wrong one will mean that the end of the story will come too soon.

“But I knew she was there. Watching us from a corner of the room.” Stefan continues, “even though she couldn’t take her eyes off of us, she still didn’t notice as I compelled her husband to let me drink him dry – too busy watching him come undone underneath me.” Stefan murmurs, so close now they’re standing chest to back. “I assume that part came as bit of a surprise.”

 “I remember looking over at her, catching her eyes just as I bit into her husband’s wrist.” Stefan’s hand slides down his arm, the contact sending a rush of sparks down his spine as it wraps around his wrist. He can feel himself turning, the blood running hot in his veins and he has to fight not to lean back into the solid weight behind him.

“You know that taste, don’t you?” Stefan whispers, and there’s a brief scraping of teeth against Klaus’ skin, a brush of lips against his ear. “Pure, undiluted lust. There really is nothing better.”

There’s a storm roaring inside his head, nearly drowning out the ripper’s words. White-hot flashes burn their way through his system, leaving every nerve-ending alight. He barely notices the way he is pushing back against Stefan; the need so thick in his veins he can barely stand.

A hand brushes over his abdomen, soothing the quivering muscles. Not until it reaches the waistband of his pants does he snap out of his haze. Spinning around he attempts to free his arm and nearly groans out loud when Stefan tightens his grip. They’re still close, so very close, the smell of arousal so heavy in the air it makes his mouth water.

Time slows and for a brief moment everything is quiet. Easy. The need to run, the constant itch under his skin telling him to _find them_ – find a pack and not be alone, that alone is all he is and ever will be without them  – stops.

“You always take whatever you want. Why not this?” Stefan breathes against his lips, eyes burning impossibly dark. There’s a sudden desperation to his features, in the way he’s gripping Klaus’ wrist hard enough to bruise and the urgency in his voice. “Come on, Nik.”

It would be so easy, no more running, not spending another thousand years constantly looking over his shoulder. Yet he hesitates, swallows thickly against the tightness in his throat.

“ _Nik_.”

It’s the raspy sound of his name spilling from Stefan’s lips, which nearly undoes him. Klaus squeezes his eyes shut, nearly choking on a groan as Stefan moves against him. To hell with it. To hell with running all the time and the constant vigilance and never a moment’s weakness. He’s never needed anything more than this. A hunger so different from anything he’s ever known; the force of it so strong it’s about to disintegrate his bones.

The unexpected sound of the front door opening, and heels against the wooden floor, has them both crashing back into reality.

“Stefan?”

Rebekah, her voice as familiar to him as his own, calls out from the other room. Klaus steps back, nearly stumbles, his mind screaming in protest of the sudden distance. Stefan is looking at him; chest heaving and his face an array of mixed emotion as his gaze flicks over to the door. When he finally moves, his movements are seemingly unaffected, and Rebekah has called out for him yet again.

Klaus doesn’t watch him leave but keeps his eyes locked on the wall in front of him. For a moment he imagines adding his own name to the wall and leave a permanent proof of his existence other than lifeless, mutilated bodies. To be one of the stories that the ripper will never forget. He can hear the soft rustling of fabric and brush of lips as the couple greets each other in their usual way.

“What were you doing in there?” Rebekah laughs and Klaus can picture her perfectly. Arms casually wrapped around her beau’s neck, head tilted back in soft amusement.

Even though the list is nothing compared to the mountain of secrets, lies and half truths between them, it suddenly feels imminent that his sister knows nothing about this, whatever it was. Right now it’s important that it remains _theirs_ , and only theirs. Perhaps later he will look back at the memory, laughing at their drunk-out-of-their-minds night in the pantry, but it doesn’t feel likely. He has never needed to write down the things that matter in order to remember them.

“Found it,” Klaus exclaims loudly, grabbing hold of a bottle on his way out. He finds them just as he pictured, Stefan’s arm wrapped loosely around the blonde’s waist. He raises an eyebrow in mock surprise at the sight of this sister, even though they both know he was already aware of her presence. Usually their rapport is strangely comforting, a welcome habit amidst centuries of change, but not tonight.

“What’s he doing here?” Rebekah pouts, all her focus on Stefan. She steps in closer, lowering her voice to a seductive murmur, “I thought it was going to be just you and me.”

Stefan offers her a smile and a roll of his eyes at her petulant tone, intertwining their fingers. Klaus watches the exchange, unable to look away. It’s a scene he has watched unfold a hundred times, but this time it feels different. It has never before forced him to bite back a snarl.

Rebekah squeezes her boyfriend’s hand before turning her attention to him, “Beat it, Nik.”

“Now, now, little sister. No need to be mean, I just dropped by for a nightcap,” he replies, but they barely pay him any notice. As the lingering stares turn more heated Klaus swallows, fingers tightening their grip around the bottle hard enough to almost shatter the glass. For a moment he can imagine the bottle breaking, the sharp splinters embedding themselves in his flesh – and he almost welcomes the idea of pain. “I’m going to go find someone to pair this with. You kids enjoy yourselves.”

Stefan shoots him an undecipherable look, opening his mouth as if to speak, but Klaus diverts his gaze, jaw tight. He doesn’t look their way as he walks by on his way out, the itch once more crawling under his skin and telling him to move.  Get out.

Further down the hall, with the door closed behind him, he can still hear the two of them; Stefan’s quiet groan and his sister’s laugh. He moves quickly down the stairs, his footsteps muted against the threadbare carpet; pretending it’s the alcohol that leaves a burning taste at the back of his throat.  
   
 

  


**the end.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to my lovely friend nondescriptf for beta-ing this for me. You are a truly great beta and an even better friend. Thank you so much for putting up with my obsession with these two non-sparkly boys, and my weird use of prepositions.


End file.
